Poor Billy looked worse and worse. I tried to comfort him, but was puzzled by his behaviour. Perhaps he was a philanthropist and liked me while convention was against me, but hadn’t the know-how to act up to the situation which had suddenly overtaken us.

Another note arrived at the end of lunch.

“Your mischief is like a tonic. Never enjoyed myself more. Your father has invited me to spend a week with him after the Show, and then I’ll get my innings. I bet young Olliver’s cake is turning to dough already. Let me know your thoughts by the messenger.”

I wrote: “My thought is that you are very silly. Don’t blame me. I haven’t said a word, but everyone in town will know that the messenger is from you.”

The messenger was back in twenty minutes: “It’s downright unkind of you not to mention me. What do you suppose I’m sending a man back and forth for but to keep myself to the front. If my only object was to employ a messenger I could give him five bob and let him rest his corns.”

Billy growled, “You must be very spoony if you have to write to him every two minutes.”

Mr. Beauchamp had me on tip-toe to play ball with him, but I could not make him angry. He laughed with imperturbable good humour.

The rain never let-up for a moment. Everyone settled down to a comfortable day indoors. We had a jolly time at the Royal with flirtation and chocolates, badinage and so on, mingled in equal parts. The prospects of grass for the winter cheered everyone.

“The rain’ll do more good than the Show,” the publicans said, as they reaped an advance harvest.

As the afternoon deepened the messenger represented Pa, and I had to return to the Commercial. It was too wet to ride home with Billy, as we had intended, so I tucked in beside Aunt Jane.

Billy escorted me to the last and said good-bye with chocolates, the only backsheesh I was permitted to collect from admirers.

It was a long wet drive. In spite of macintoshes, umbrellas and rugs, the rain drove through cracks, and we reached home cold and damp. Eusty had a roaring fire and the tea set, and soon we were all comfortable around it, talking over the day.

“Dear me, what an interesting man Mr. Beauchamp has developed into,” remarked Aunt Jane. “Most of the young men are interesting until they begin to cackle with Sybylla and turn into perfect idiots.” Aunt Jane was disapproving of my disappearance all day, but Pa said I was as safe as in a church at the Royal.

I had received a letter from Old Harris in reply to my complaints of my woes. The sympathy in it rose to understanding and was as liberating as a new idea.

He stated that fowls would always peck at the wild swan that was hatched among them until it grew strong enough to escape. As to the excessive number of people who claimed that they had been caricatured, the more of these the greater the tribute to my gifts of characterisation: it was valuable evidence which should elate rather than depress. He went on to say that one should be magnanimous about misplaced censure as the day was swiftly coming when it would be reversed. The future boast of my associates would be that they had known me. He implored me to remember that I wore the mantle of genius—a royal mantle which should never be lined with rancour. He said he hoped to see me in London whither he was soon returning. I would find my rightful place there. I was as out of my element in ’Possum Gully as a swan in the Sahara. “Your wings, my brave girl,” he concluded, “are fashioned for grand flight. Lift them up and soar, and if an old man who once knew the world overseas, to which you will soon gravitate, may venture a word of advice: think and wait, make no entanglements to cripple the power of long distance flight.”